Alpine Hero (20 page)

Before I could answer, Grace Grundle spoke up: “
You and Dodge!
Really, I can’t think what is happening to the English language! It’s all this television.” Apparently having finally concluded her business with Roy Everson, Grace Grundle went on her wavery way out of the post office. I followed, keeping my distance, but not making any promises to Amanda about the accident. She was on her own; I had to tell the truth as I had seen it.

But I couldn’t dismiss my curiosity about the parcel that Jane Marshall had refused. The U.S. Post Office was delivering too much unwanted mail in Alpine. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

M
ILO ALSO HAD
forgotten about the accident report. He had Dustin Fong give me a form, which I dutifully filled out, trying to be both accurate and fair. When I finished, I tapped on the sheriff’s door.

Milo was on the phone, but he motioned for me to come in. Since the remodeling, the sheriff’s private quarters have been expanded, a skylight has been put in, and the walls have been painted a rich cream color. Milo’s personal decor includes a mounted steelhead, a photograph of his children taken about ten years ago, a map of Skykomish County, a forged twenty-dollar bill, an ashtray made out of antlers, a mediocre painting of Mount Baldy, and a poster proclaiming that
GUN CONTROL MEANS HITTING YOUR TARGET
. Besides added space, Milo also has a new computer, extra shelving, and a separate door that leads to the rest room, the interrogation room, and the evidence room. It also allows Milo to slip out the rear exit, should he feel so inclined.

I had been sitting for a couple of minutes when Milo finally hung up the phone. Murder wasn’t the only crime on the sheriff’s agenda. A hubcap thief was loose in Alpine, and the sheriff had an informant who thought the stolen goods were being sold to a dealer in Lynnwood.

“I got a description,” Milo said, jabbing his pen at an open notepad. “Young, but not too young. Average
height, average weight, brownish hair, hazel or brown eyes, no visible marks.” He yawned. “Tattoos are in. Why can’t these guys have
crook
put on their foreheads? That’s the only way we’ll ever get anybody to give an accurate description.”

I sympathized. Then, burrowing deeper into the sheriff’s good graces, I accepted a mug of his pathetic coffee. “I’m meddling,” I admitted, “but if I don’t, Vida will.”

Milo wore a pained expression, but didn’t stop me from explaining about the Marshall women and their strange mail deliveries. “Laurie didn’t receive a package at the salon—that must have been a letter, or at least nothing bigger than a ten-by-twenty envelope. But her mother refused a parcel that had no return address. Amanda Hanson will send it to the Dead Letter Office unless you confiscate it.”

“As what? A parcel?” Milo made a face. “Hey, Emma, I really don’t get this one. What do Jane and Laurie Marshall have to do with Kay Whitman’s murder? At least I assume that’s what’s going through that curly little head of yours.” He suddenly stopped and stared. “Whoa! You don’t have curls anymore. What happened?”

“I got my hair cut,” I replied peevishly. “Yesterday morning.” It was typical of Milo not to notice such things immediately. “I lost all my permanent.” I’d also lost all the styling that Stella had put into my thick brown locks. She might as well have stuck a bowl on my head and used pruning shears. “And yes, Laurie does have something to do with the murder—she was on the scene when it happened.”

Milo now wore a musing expression. “Okay,” he murmured, obviously humoring me. “So you think Laurie knows something and she’s being blackmailed. Is that it?”

The thought had never occurred to me, nor did I believe that the sheriff was serious. “I’m not sure what I believe,” I said, sounding sulky. Then, though I knew it would do no good, I told Milo how Vida and I had called on the Marshalls Monday evening. “Jane acted as if she didn’t want Laurie to talk to us. We couldn’t figure out why. At the time I figured maybe it was because Laurie is a mental midget, and her mother didn’t want her saying something stupid that might mislead us. But now we think she may actually be much more intelligent than she pretends because her real father is … oh, dear.” I was drowning in a sea of conjecture.

“Emma,” Milo began, pushing himself back in his new leather chair and placing his feet on the desk, “let Vida handle the story. It’s bad enough with her, God knows, but when you jump into the act, it’s enough to make me want to turn in my badge. Go away now, and let me get back to work.”

“The parcel,” I said stubbornly. “The least you can do is have a look.”

“You look,” Milo said, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll be damned if I can figure out why you think Jane Marshall has anything to do with the murder of Kay Whitman. Even with a big stretch, some damned package—which could be a dress she changed her mind about or a bunch of bulbs she doesn’t want to put in the frozen ground right now—that doesn’t ring any alarm bells with me. Go ahead, pretend you brought me the package. Open it, examine it, fondle it, then throw the damned thing in the trash. Garbage pickup’s on Monday, so it’ll be gone in seventy-two hours, and we can forget it, like a bad dream. G’bye, Emma.”

Feeling like a flop, I left the sheriff to his hubcaps. Vida could collect the unwanted package from the post
office. I told her so when I returned to
The Advocate
. In contrast to Milo, she was intrigued.

“Someone is harassing the Marshalls,” she declared. “For how long, I wonder?”

“Good point,” I said as Carla joined us in the newsroom. “Why not ask Jane? You two seem to have bonded.”

Vida inclined her head. “Perhaps. Odd, isn’t it, that both Laurie and Becca have worrisome elements in their lives. Laurie—and presumably Jane—receive unwanted mail. Becca gets annoying phone calls from her ex-husband. Do either—or both—of these situations have anything to do with Kay Whitman’s death, or are they merely a sign of the times?”

“Speaking of
The Times
,” Carla put in, “I had them send me this photo of Toby Popp from their files in Seattle. It’s at least five years old, but we can use it with the house story.”

Leo looked up from his computer screen. “That’s Popp?” The furrows on his weathered face grew deeper as he stood up and leaned across his desk. “Hey! That’s the guy who came in with the personal ad!”

Vida and I stared, while Carla looked puzzled. It dawned on me that my reporter didn’t know anything about the strange man who had shown up Monday night with the ad copy. It was Leo, however, who explained what had happened.

“Weird science,” he concluded. “Maybe all those computer guys really are nuts.”

Carla was studying the photo, which seemed to have been cropped from a bigger picture. Toby was turned to his left, indicating that in the original shot, he’d been looking at someone else.

“I think he’s kind of cute,” Carla said. “For a nerd.”

“A billion bucks’ worth of cute,” Leo remarked, sitting down again. “I met the guy. Trust me, he’s weird.”

“We met him, too,” Vida declared, glancing in my direction. “He’s not ordinary, I’ll admit that.” She adjusted her glasses, then shook her head. “No, he
is
ordinary. That’s what’s so peculiar about him.”

“His ad was weird, Duchess. He acted weird.” Leo wasn’t giving in. “He never came back, which is the weirdest part of all.”

“Evidence of a one-track mind,” Vida countered. “That’s how people become an enormous success. Toby Popp must be incredibly focused. My, my—I wonder what the ad meant?”

“Tell me again,” Carla begged.

No one could accuse Carla of being focused. “ ‘One down, one to go,’ ” I quoted, exchanging yet another glance with Vida. “We thought it was kind of … odd.”

“We thought,” Vida said in a firm voice, “that it might pertain to Kay Whitman’s murder, coming as it did only hours after the tragedy. I suspect that Emma and I were victimized by our own active imaginations.”

“Occupational hazard,” Leo remarked in an agreeable voice.

We were silent for a few moments, the only sound coming from the occasional rumble of a truck out on Front Street and the whistle of the Burlington-Northern as it began its steep climb through the Cascade Tunnel. Leo had returned to his computer screen, Carla was examining the photo of Toby Popp, Vida was ostensibly reading through a wedding story, and I was studying some of the advertising copy. I suspected that neither Vida nor I was concentrating on our work. My guess was proved right when my House & Home editor put on her brown tweed coat and announced that she was going to the post office.

I returned to my desk, making a valiant effort to engross myself in next week’s edition. By eleven o’clock, I’d finished the brief (and dull) community-college article and the even briefer (and duller) new-bridge story. The timber-sales editorial was ready to roll. I cast about for another story idea, but nothing came to mind. The truth was, I should have been covering the homicide. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Vida with the story, at least not the gathering of it—she was better at ferreting out facts than I was. The writing was another matter, though as long as I could edit her copy, that was all right, too. But I felt a personal as well as a professional void. I needed that story to fill a hole in my life. But I’d be damned if I’d give that empty nook a name.

Vida returned shortly before noon, suggesting that we eat lunch at the Burger Barn. Apparently, she was ignoring her diet. In the pre–Buck Bardeen era, Vida had periodically attempted to lose weight, either via the occasional fad route, or by consuming only carrots, celery, cottage cheese, and hard-boiled eggs. In between, she would binge. Neither extreme seemed to affect her figure. Nor did her more concerted efforts when she first started seeing Buck the previous summer. I had seen pictures of Vida as a young woman, and she had always looked the same, at least as far as her weight was concerned. She wasn’t fat; she was big. But somehow, she clung to the notion that her destiny was being slim. Given her otherwise exceptionally good sense, I marveled at her self-delusion. The optimism about her ability to lose pounds and inches ranked right up there with her unshakable conviction that her grandson, Roger, was a well-behaved child.

Vida had brought her straw shopping bag along to the Burger Barn. As I suspected, it contained the parcel that Jane Marshall had returned to the post office.

“I considered opening it in front of Milo,” Vida said as we sat down in a rear booth, “but he’d scoff. However, I went through channels and got Billy to authorize having me pick up the parcel. Amanda isn’t exactly a stickler for rules. You can tell that by those skimpy skirts.”

Jessie Lott, who always looks hot and tired even before noon on a forty-degree day, took our order. I was content with the burger basket; Vida requested the meatloaf sandwich, which came with mashed potatoes and gravy, a vegetable medley, and Jell-O.

“I’ll skip dinner,” she murmured after Jessie had gone. “Or have soup.”

My sense of anticipation had grown. Vida seemed to relish prolonging the moment, which wasn’t like her. Finally, I realized that she was waiting for the couple across the aisle to leave. When they did about three minutes later, Vida produced the package.

It was the size of a large dictionary, and wrapped in plain brown paper. Vida pointed out the address and postmark.

“Sultan, February fifteenth, which was Wednesday, day before yesterday. The requisite number of stamps, block printing, black felt-tipped pen, sent to Marshall, 522 Cascade Street, Alpine, Washington 98289. What does that tell you?”

“It’d tell me more if you opened the damned thing,” I said dryly.

Vida sighed. “Be patient, Emma. I’m trying to gauge Jane Marshall’s reaction. She did
not
open this package. Why?”

I hazarded a guess. “Because she knew what was in it?”

“Perhaps.” Vida waited, the wise teacher hoping her dim pupil would come up with a better answer.

“Because she knew who sent it,” I finally said.

“Exactly. Jane knew because she recognized the handwriting.” Seeing my incredulous expression, she waved a hand. “Not in the usual sense—but the fact that it’s block-printed means Jane—or someone else in the family—had received other mailings addressed in a similar fashion. They were unwelcome, as was this one. Now, shall we open it?”

I held my breath as Vida undid the wrapping paper, which was sealed with strapping tape. To my annoyance, she folded the paper into neat squares, then placed it beside her on the worn vinyl upholstery. The box was white, the shiny kind that’s usually reserved for gifts. A vase might fit, or a pair of bookends.

The rustle of tissue struck my ear at the same time that something repugnant hit my nostrils. Vida’s head was bent over the box. She jumped, let out a shriek, and dropped the box onto the floor. Her face was white; her hands shook. Jessie Lott appeared with my coffee and Vida’s tea.

“We’re out of Jell-O,” the waitress said. “Would you like sliced peaches instead?” At last, Jessie took in Vida’s horrified expression. “Why, whatever’s wrong, dear? Are you feeling sick?”

I could see Vida’s self-discipline at work. She rested her hands on the table, squared her shoulders, and licked her lips. “I’m fine, Jessie.” Vida actually managed a smile, though it mocked her usual manner. “Peaches sound very nice, thank you.”

Though puzzled, Jessie Lott wasn’t the curious type. She moved away again, just as Buddy Bayard and Dutch Bamberg sat down in the opposite booth. We exchanged greetings, though I know I sounded stilted and Vida was distracted.

The smell was beginning to make me feel queasy. “What is it?” I whispered.

Vida leaned forward, now holding on to her black pillbox hat. “It’s a cat,” she said under her breath. “A dead cat. If I had to guess, I’d say it was Dodger. I think we’d better get the sheriff.”

Seldom have I admired Vida as much as I did when she put the lid back on the box and carried the feline corpse out of the Burger Barn and across the street to Milo’s headquarters. I offered to go with her, but she insisted that I stay so that I could ask Jessie to move us to another, less odoriferous booth.